


Alliances

by optimouse



Series: Maroon and Gold [2]
Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2020-04-08 05:30:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19100674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/optimouse/pseuds/optimouse
Summary: Book Two of Maroon and GoldCount Vordarian has ascended in the eyes of Barrayar and her Emperor,and now must return triumphant to her District.Burya's challenges are not for the faint of heart, and intrigues run like the riversfrom the District's mountains, as fast as the tribes' horses, as intricate as the workof the villages' people, and rage like the great ocean under the Stronghold.





	1. Chapter 1

_Prologue_

_Somewhere on Barrayar_

_Making choices of questionable wisdom_

 

                 “He was tried for treason.” The man sat back in his chair. The woman across from him picked up her tea for a sip and held his gaze, pushing him to say more. “The old term would have been _line theft._ Also, financial crimes. Apparently, he was not paying his taxes as well.”

                  “You mean he—” If nothing else, her ex husband had paid his taxes. Good grief, what if Vincent had talked? “Was he sentenced?” She had avoided having an access terminal at home for a variety of reasons—and if she had not insisted, she might not have been surprised.

                 “They staked him out in Vorhartung Square this morning.” He paused, and she took another sip. “Your daughter was there.” Yvette pushed every ounce of reserve that being the wife of a Count, the grand daughter of a Princess, and the daughter of a Bey had taught her and shoved it into her face and spine.

                Rude words echoed through her head as she parsed the information and avoided speaking. Yvette suspected that she had blanched, but that would be hidden by the sparse lighting of the room.

                “My daughter and I do not keep in contact.” She had taken a mental step back. Losing custody to her former husband had been a blow that she had not known how to deal with. It had meant that she had only just barely regained anything more-than-casual of the interest of men. It had certainly affected her ability to make political connections.

                “You may regret that, Lady Yvette.” The man sat back, smiled slightly. “She’s the Count Vordarian now. And you’re running out of funds, friends, and gaining enemies.”

                She looked at the back bedroom and smiled, thinking of the young man tucked in there. For the moment, she had the power to protect and nurture him in the fine arts of politics.

                Perhaps choosing to focus on rebuilding her own power had not been the best choice, cut off from the power of her family, but so far, harboring the son of her former lover had been _fruitful_ in alliances. Unfortunately, the lad had none of his father’s sadism. Too bad, her daughter as well lacked her own mind. What she had heard from her cousin over the years the lass had too much of her father, that arrogant, honorable, unbearable man. He had had the nerve to divorce her, and then run gene scans on _the daughter that he had forced her to bear._ Like she would have been dumb enough to get pregnant by another man and not abort it, like she’d wanted to do to that _child_ , the one that had stolen her _power._

                Yvette sat back, considered, and set down her tea.

                “I may, indeed, old friend.” She smiled at him, changing how her shoulders sat to try and be more inviting to the man. “Thank you for your concern. Any other news from the city?”

                She would make the appointments for an access terminal in her home the next available business day. Being caught off guard was not to Lady Yvette Vordarian’s preferences at all.


	2. returning home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> returning home...  
> to district  
> to tent
> 
> and then the struggles set in.
> 
> as I edit the stories into two separate stories, this is a chapter that was previously posted.

“The news cycle is going to show this morning, in the Square.”

Sofia leaned back against the padded back of one of the flitters that had been a part of her uncle’s sumptuous fleet of similar vehicles. She expected that they would have to sell a good chunk of that fleet—if not to pay off debts than to fund future projects.

“Yes.” Boris agreed with that assessment. “Perhaps not when you were a child, but given that the charges were read in the Square before the execution, yes. Your new position will only fuel that fire, Count.”

“I guess that it could not be escaped.” Sofia exerted the iron will that had gotten her through University and turned her mind to something that she could plan for. “What is our current plan upon arrival?”

They had thrown several plans back and forth, but the Auditor’s presence changed the one that they had chosen, especially now that the man was travelling with a small contingent of security in addition to the ImpSec detachment that was already assigned.

“We announce your presence to the landing tower at the same time that the ImpSec detachment starts clearing the Stronghold, along with the presence of the Auditor. We have agents specifically tasked to secure the books.”

Boris finished, looked at his Count.  Simple, especially with the presence of Count and Auditor.

“Makes sense to me.” Security on this level was not her specialty. Political action could be managed, especially in academics, but she had never been given those particular lessons, or had the opportunity to learn. “Has anyone received messages from their families since yesterday?”

 

 

 

The chanting was heavy enough that the air itself was vibrating.

A twitch of her fingers ensured a straight fall of fabric as she listened.

“They are awaiting.”

The flitter was in the final landing stages.

It would land on the heights, out would go Lev, as Orel made sure her sword was fastened. Then ascending—there that set of thuds.

Lev opened the door, stepped out as Orel helped her with belt and then to stand, and into her sword belt.

“Let us not keep them waiting,”

She stepped to the door, let Orel through, and then stepped out, one hand already raising.

Her father had once held her up to a crowd like this. There were photos in the archives at home and in the history books of that moment, her introduction to the people as the Count-Regnant’s first born.

VORDARIAN, VORDARIAN, VORDARIAN

She could do  _this_  too.

Sofia looked at her people, thronging in the courtyard below as her household braced her waist, then raised her other hand.

They filled it with upturned faces pale as milk to as dark as the sun could dye it, smiling and cheering. At least one woman held her babe up.

How easily could this crowd turn? What were their needs, wants, desires?

She pulled both arms down and the chanting died off.

Into the echo, she spoke.

“It is good to be home with my people at last.” She allowed herself a smile. “Long have I missed the peaks of Stronghold, the mountains and forest of Burya, and the plains of our district. Now, to enter again as Count, to serve my people and our Emperor? That is a solemn duty I am glad to take up.”

Someone started a new chant as she stopped speaking.

“Welcome home.”

 

 

 

 

Deep in the depths of the Stronghold, Sofia walked, following ancient steps into an ancient room.

The Vordarians had not built the Stronghold. If they had, that had been replaced by a different story. The Stronghold had originally been held by a family and their garrison that had demanded an increasing amount of taxes from the people who lived nomadically on the plains. Those people, who lived and worshipped so differently from their rulers had slowly made alliances, one band to the next, until they stood as one group in purpose.

Under the guise of delivering taxes, a daughter of the tribe had been gifted to the Stronghold. When the time came, the daughter opened the doors to her tribe’s warriors.

While she had lived within the Stronghold, she had befriended the staff and village of the Stronghold, and when her tribe’s warriors had conquered the Stronghold, putting warlord and garrison to death, it was she who stepped forward to speak before they left.

“If someone who is just, fair, and strong does not hold the Stronghold, it will simply be held by another as cruel,” she had spoken to her father. “I know that it is not our way to stay within stone walls, but it is our way to be kind to those in need, strong to support, and fierce to defend. The Stronghold would give us that opportunity.”

Her father, head of their tribe, agreed to allow her to try. When the united tribes spoke, it was agreed.

Daria held the Stronghold until she passed it to her son, who, upon the passing, went to the tribes to make a pact. That the Stronghold would protect, defend, and house as needed, while the Tribes would support, owe fealty, and provide arms if called upon. The Darian was then sworn, first at the Stronghold, then at the Tribes.

Here, in the depths of the Stronghold, that pact was drawn upon the walls, a history accessible to all within the Stronghold.

“Sofia?” Lev leaned against his heels. “The Pact?”

“I had a messenger sent to the tribes.” She admitted, fingers against the painting on the wall. “I have asked permission to come to the summit. Well, one messenger to each of the nine tribes. One special messenger”

“You want to renew the pact, then.”

“Our power is derived from our duty to our Emperor, and our duty to our people.” Sophia remembered learning those words, just toddling, hands in her father’s hands as he worked in the solar. “Father journeyed to the tribes as well to renew the pact.”

“Sofia.” Lev’s word was singular. “I do not disagree with you, I followed you here because you should not walk alone.”

“I will never have the choice to walk alone again.” The words were stark, solid, pained. “Even in the Stronghold.”

“Sofia.” A ragged hiss, and she reached out, wound her hand into his. “Sofia?”

“Let them see.” She whispered. “Let them see that I trust my household with my emotions.” She leaned into him, nestling close. “Orel is going to his father’s tribe.”

“To seek him out?”

“Aye. I also wanted him there. We do have some information on the doings of the various tribes from Imperial Security, but…not enough.”

“They would be the easiest place for your uncle to not have done enough.”

“Nomadic tribes are innately hard to track, taxes or otherwise.” Sofia knew her history. “Either way, we will be learning these things over the next few days.”

“You’re not going to go through the books tonight. Let the Lord Auditor worry about that, Sofia.”

“Lev?”

“You are going to sleep in that warm bed that one of the household servants put together.” He paused, let the words sink in. “I will join you. I had the servants prepare a cot.”

“You have no intention of using it.”

“No, Sofia.” He took the opportunity to press a kiss to her hair. “Let them whisper, but you will be taking a sleep timer.”

“Ordering your Count?”

“Ordering my lady.” Another kiss pressed to her forehead. “You need to sleep, and if it takes an order, then I’ll make it an order. I’m starting to worry about your health.”

“So is Orel.” She mentioned their third, who had spent time this morning on their way to the execution trying to wrangle appointments. “I will go to sleep if you can carry me to my bed.”

“It’s that bad?” Of course, it was that bad if she had asked to be carried when she needed to show strength.

“I have been hiding the pain. Last night helped, but—I chose to take the chains to bind my uncle to starve.” He scooped her up, one arm under her knees and another around her ribs. She shifted so that her arms wrapped around his shoulders. “That, the flight, the tour of the Stronghold, and then starting the hunt through the library and studies for my Uncle’s books and records, it all added up.”

“You will officially swear with the dawn, won’t you?” The wording was a question, but the tone was not.

“It is the traditional time. I was with Boris and Andrei when I requested that the swearing in happen then, and requested that it will be filmed and broadcast.”

“So you will sleep until 3, then we will awake and dress.” Lev knew it in his bones as they ascended through stone tunnels and then up into the main floors of the Stronghold. “Almost there.”

“At least you are sure where we are going. My memories are of being four and following Miss Manda whenever we were outside of the family quarters.” She admitted that. Today’s tour had not truly helped with being able to navigate, not if she was exhausted.

“I am happy enough that so far there has not been much resistance.”

“My uncle did not live here, or rather, did not prefer here.” She had been ruminating over that all day. “I am concerned that we only found five of his armsmen, aside from those who were arrested with him.”

“Given that there can be up to fifty—did he simply not swear as many as he could?” Lev followed along with her train of thought. “The numbers reported to the Emperor- do you have those?”

“Aye, and the names. We’ll start from there. After the swearing in. In the morning.”

The door was propped halfway open in the family quarters. Not truly the Count’s suite, this set had been hers as a child, and oddly enough had not been ransacked for things hidden inside by the Count-her-Uncle. The bed was partially turned down, and the case of medications, still locked, was on a table in the middle of the room.

He set her down, and started removing his own outer layers. The stunner would remain as close to hand as possible, but strapping it to his body would not be effective. Orel liked to remove his for him, but not today.

Braced against a chair, his lady suffered with the closures on her boots, and after he removed his own, he knelt to help, pulling each one off and setting it aside. The boots again tomorrow, so they stayed out next to his as he pulled his own tunic and trousers off.

“You are staying here with me, then.” A quiet, plaintive question. When their relationship had turned from platonic friends to a more romantic nature, they had, the three of them, had to renegotiate what that would even look like. The power differential in status, and her personal preferences, including that she would remain virginal until marriage or she knew better what her Uncle-the-Count wanted of her had been discussed at length, as had Lev’s preferences for nonmonogamy, and Orel’s occasional interests outside of the group of them.

Her personal preferences were towards the masculine, and towards those she trusts implicitly—she had doubted that a romantic relationship would form after an arranged marriage by her Uncle.

“Aye.” Lev left his trousers hanging, folded, over a chair back. “You need to sleep.”

“I’m not going to sleep well until Orel is home as well.” Home was—her family closer to her. Not a place, a state of being.

“You’ll take the damn sleep timer.” Lev opened the box of medications. The new box took a thumbprint read. He paused, took out the bottle, poured one out, and took the care not to slam the whole thing shut. “Orel will be back soon.” He paused again, triggered the lock to open, pulled out a bottle that was nearly full of liquid and a packaged syringe. “You aren’t well enough to do the swearing in the morning.”

“Orel, I—”

“You set up everything for it. It will happen—at dawn, the day after tomorrow. You can not stand without assistance, Sofia. You are going to take a sleep timer, I am going to give you a dose of muscle relaxants to force some of the issue, and then I will tuck you into bed. While you start sleeping, I will take care of rescheduling the transmission—”

Sofia listened to her partner speak, and forced herself quiet.

“I think that the oaths that you made to the Emperor being transmitted tomorrow at dawn, noon, and dusk should do the trick, with an announcement that you will be taking the oaths within the district at sunrise the day after tomorrow should do the trick. It will give a chance for anyone who would wish to observe to come and see, and give you a chance to figure out if you are going to need to extend our stay.”

“Lev?” She followed the logical thoughts. “You think that we are going to need to stay in Burya.”

“Sofia, you can barely move, you have run yourself so ragged.” It overstepped the bounds of armsman or household member, but not of a partner. “I think that you are going to need to teach remotely from here while you get things in order in regards to the estate and the District. I also think that I am going to need to find a private doctor and pay them a lot of money to keep your secrets.” He pushed a breath out. “Even now you are holding yourself up with your arms. You have managed to remove your tunic—and nothing else. You could manage to undress yourself fully without help a week ago.” He moved behind her, offering the pill and watching it be swallowed dry before putting down the vial and the syringe and moving to unlace her corset.  “Orel will shout at us both if we do not start putting together a smarter plan.” A job, their partner said, was better done well than quickly.

“Alright.” It was a quieter answer, not assertive. It was not weakness, Sofia thought, to listen to her partners’ worries, thoughts, concerns. Not weakness to change her mind based on a stronger argument that made sense and aligned with their mutual beliefs. Not weakness to listen to her partner’s words to her, and then agree, let them be strong. “Thank you-for---” she struggled with the words. “Thank you for taking care of me.”  _Thank you for telling me what to do, dearest._

Lev pressed a kiss to her head, setting the corset aside before picking up the syringe and making quick work of the wrapping before preparing the shot of muscle relaxants. “Are you ready?”

“Aye.”  _Yes, dear._  “You’ll?”

“Finish undressing you if you fall asleep before I am done? Yes.” Lev depressed the syringe after placing the needle before discarding both on the table. There would be time enough to put it in the sharps bin in the lock box. He moved to lift her arms, shifting her weight to his shoulders before removing the camisole and breast binder. Lev darted a look to her eyes, and touched her curves with hands and mouth, gently.

Worshipping at her altar.

He moved her to the bed, watched eyes closing and fluttering before lifting her hips to remove leggings and underwear. Pushing them aside and to the floor, Lev lifted the blankets into place over her body, and tucked them down before moving to finish cleaning up the laundry and moving to the inter-house communications console.

“Count?” It drew a sleepy murmur from the bed, and Lev began to speak.

“This is Lev. The Count is asleep, and will be asleep until tomorrow morning. She has issued orders that tomorrow’s live broadcast be moved to the next day, and the recording of her swearing to the Emperor be broadcast instead, at dawn, noon, and dusk, as well as an announcement that she will swear at dawn the day after tomorrow.”

“Sir?”

“We need to give time in case there are those who would like to watch here, or live.” Lev thought about it.  “She will also be choosing a venue tomorrow, and making sure that it can be cleaned and made available for live watchers.”

The other end spoke, and Lev kept his words true. Partner, Count—two sides of one person he was loyal to without question.

 

 

 

 

 

The drums had started, and so they looked up from their meal.

“We are not expecting any one.” Father’s voice, the mind that kept track of schedules, plans, everything. “That is not the pattern for our returning hunters.” Even his mind could not keep track of all of the things, at all of the time. “That’s the—”

“The pattern for the sighting of a messenger.” He whispered the words, looking to his father and rising from dinner. “Trouble?”

“Two ways that this goes.” His mother spoke, the softened curves of her words belaying her birth in the mountains rather than the plains. “We receive a messenger because of tradition or because of trouble deep enough that they did not want to trust it to a communications call.”

The guard at the door stepped partially in. “A messenger from the Stronghold.”

“Send them in.”

They stood, and looked at the rider, in the blacks and crimson of House Vordarian. The last rider had carried a summons from the Count who had not come to their people to be confirmed, so this rider?

He strode forward, half bowed to his father and then pulled out a tube of metal and gems, offering it up in the palm of his hand to Osman’s father.

“Speak, man.”

“I am Orel, son of Ogan. I am in the service of Count Vordarian, the Lady Sofia daughter of Vidal. She has given oath with grain, stone, and sword to the Emperor Gregor, son of Serg, grandson of the Emperor Ezar.” He paused, and Osman watched the other man collecting the words in his head. Ogan was the name of a tribesman. “She asks permission to come to the meeting place of the tribes to make oath as the Count to her people, and to renew the Pact.”

Osman’s father opened the tube, pulled out the thinly rolled paper. From his lessons as a child, this was a very traditional way of contacting the tribes and making the request.

His father read the words quietly, then handed over the scroll to his wife, Osman’s second mother. She read them equally quietly as Father asked a question.

“Did she send messengers to all of the tribes?”

“Aye, she did.” The man spoke, a tinge of an accent on his words. “She sent me as soon as we landed at the Stronghold, the others were to follow.”

“Why us, why you?” Osman received sharp glares from his second mother and his father.

“Ah, my father is Ogan, who was one of this tribe’s alps. My lady wanted me to go as swiftly as possible. I have not heard from him in years.” Osman had gone through the Alps of the tribe in his head, and sighed. The man…well, the man had made choices. Choices that had had consequences to him. “Sofia had hoped that one of us would have news of our family.” He watched the other man, whose dusty house uniform shifted and looked as if it had been turned down rapidly. “My oath-brother Lev remains at the Count’s side. When I return, he will go in hunt of his family.”

“I will have a message ready for you to take in the morning.” His father spoke. “For now, be welcome in my Tent, my tribe.” Mother brought the small tray of salt, water, and picked up some of the bread on the table, proffering it to the visitor. “Eat of our bread, taste of our salt, and share of our welcome, and be welcome in море’s tents, under our protection as a guest. My wives will find a place for you to sleep tonight.”

“Father, may I show him the tents?”

 

 

 

“Welcome home.” Osman had shown the other man his own tent to wash some of the road dust off and to encourage information out of the other man. It was certainly not the first time that their district had been led by a woman, but perhaps the first time that it had been recognized by the Imperium. Certainly, he had grown up. Three of the nine tribes were led by women, or had been led by women while he was growing up; two in their husband’s memory as their children grew to adulthood, one in her own right.

“Your tent is—interesting.” Orel thought that it looked like a rather interesting mix of old and new. The traditional fabric covered walls, with a small vid screen and communications center that ran on—“Does the power run on solar panels?”

“Yes.” Osman was also an interesting mix. Traditional clothes for the son of the head of a tribe, with a side pocket with a modern communicator slipped inside. An axe sheathed at his side, head in the furred hat that the tribesmen wore. “I went to University for engineering.” The textbooks remained in his tent, alongside more traditional books. The art was tapestries, strength against winds through the walls. “I designed the set up for the tribe myself. It’s actually something that we trade with several other tribes- setting up the solar and hydro power so that the tribes can pack them up and move them themselves.

“I studied politics and history,” Orel admitted. “with the Lady. On my own, trade and commerce.”

“You went with the Count?”

“I was assigned to the Lady Sofia’s detail when I was fifteen and she was four. The Count-her-Father wanted two younger armsmen with her detail, and I and another, Lev, were those two chosen. When the Count-her-Father died, and the Traitor-her-Uncle sent her into exile, we went with her.” Good information to know—that this was one of their Count’s closest retainers.

“I actually think that I remember your father speaking about that.” He had been one of the younger of those training with the Alps, as had Orel, who he was starting to remember more of. “Also, the head of the training cadre. A request was made of all the trainees, to ask if there was a volunteer to take the position.”

“I remember the request. My father asked me if I was interested,” The other man spoke, eyes trailing around the tent. “and I considered it for a few days. Father ended up having me meet with one of the men who would be my, our mentors. It was then that I found out that I would be guarding a small child.”

“Was it troublesome?”

“When the Count-who-was-her-Father was alive, there was a governess in place who helped with the practicalities of a small child. Miss Tevye gave us all lessons in caring for small children, including that it was actually better for us to let her fall, climb, run, and what not so that she could grow. Those lessons became quite helpful later, when we were sent to Beta Colony.”

The man stopped there, and Osman decided not to press for more information. “Did you hear from your father while you were there?”

“Some, yes, but it has slowed down over the years.” Orel sighed. “My mother more, but they divorced amicably when I was yet a child. She lives with her second husband, the last that I heard, in a village. I apparently have siblings.”

“Your father lives in the bachelor tents.” His father was old to do so, but—well, it was not his to say why. “I shall walk you over? At this time of night, they will be telling stories and frightening the younger men.”

“Thank you.”

 

 

 

Osman rolled over, opening his eyes to loose black hair and intelligent eyes, the roof of his own tent overhead.

“Good morning Osman.”

“Orel.” The other man stretched, rolling his shoulders. “Is-did we—is there anything that I should know, health wise?”

“Ah--.” The oath-sworn armsman was sitting up, adjusting his body, moving out of the bed and pulling on clothes. “I have two permanent partners;” he touched two tattoos on his arm, pausing on each. “They, one of them does not stray from us at all.” The man grimaced. “Her health is fragile enough as it is. I will need to fully get retested. The other, well. He enjoys the company of many. My recent health screenings are clean. Yours?”

“Yes,” He had last checked after he had made a series of decisions following the divorce, but they were clean. Quite. “will your partners mind?”

“That I slept with another?” Orel thought on it. “Perhaps most that they have not met you yet.” The man smiled. “She will like you, I think. She likes smart people. Lev—we shall see. He has grown protective, especially now that we have come home.”

 

 

Orel rode swiftly towards Stronghold, the message tucked into his uniform as he tried not to look back at the tents of the tribe. The son of a Bey, that would be a strong ally for his Count. Possibly even a decent spouse. Certainly a good bed partner. The rest, that would be seen when the tribes met in conclave for the Count to swear and renew the pact.

There was only one way, he had learned as a child barely an adult, to go. Forward. Perhaps those that they met would become good companions in the future, but for now, who would know but the passage of time.

 


	3. a note and a question

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new chapter, following upon the last chapter!
> 
> Stronghold opinions and Household reminisces and arguments.
> 
> I am still looking for an interested reader for continuity's purposes, folx!
> 
> Yes, I have more written, but that will need to wait until after my throat surgery  
> on Friday.

  “Is the Count up yet?” The cook asked. “I have the order that her man sent down ready.”

“We have not seen her outside of her rooms yet.” The woman across from her answered. “Ma Havva, her man did not leave the rooms at all last night.”

“He is sworn to her,” Havva felt age in her bones and skin as she smiled at the younger woman. “and she is not—” Well, the cook had met the woman, leaning heavily on her sworn man. She had the look of the Princess-Countess but the trembles that the Count Victor’s sister had had. Of all the things to breed true, of course it would be that. Not that Sera Vordarian had not been intelligent, kind, and a strength of her house, but the woman had not survived the Cetagandans. “Mila, you will learn patience, with a strong Count.”

“I am a ladies’ maid, by training. Why was I not invited to help?” Havva shook her head before answering.

“Does the Count look like she needs fancy help, Mila? Trousers underneath tunics, boots.” Havva kept going as the girl’s eyebrows raised. “Corset and boots are the most work of her outfit. Yes, the Count wears her hair long—I guarantee that her sworn men are the ones who braids it, if it is not her. You may be asked to fill baths, help with clothing, perhaps with hair and makeup, girl, but that’s about it. Her closest companions will remain those sworn to her.” Havva sighed. “The Count reminds me of her Father in that. Not one to trust many close to them.” Good reasons, he had. The Emperor Yuri’s madness had been a strong lesson. So too had the Countess Yvette.

 

 

 

“Andrei, do you think that they still don’t know that they are sleeping together?” Boris pressed a kiss to his husband’s shoulder. Twenty years ago, the skin had had less spots and had been somewhat more firm, but this waking ritual during their early-morning pillow talk remained.

“I think that they believe—“Andrei rolled over, moving the blankets and bearing greying chest fur. “that we would call them _wrong_. Possibly кровосмесительный, krovosmesitel'nyy,” he hunted for the word. “Incestuous. Because we raised them together.” He had thought on it over the years. “Or perhaps that there was a problem because there are three of them, or because Sofia, our little Count,” he used the diminutive that he would now prefer to _my little lady_ to practice as it still settled. “is _herself_ , and they were sworn to her father as Armsmen. A conflict of interest, to use the terms we learned in her classes.”

“Her father the Count had a plan—” Boris agreed with some of his husband’s assessment. “to provide a strong and stable household.”

“Boris, the Count-her-father was never going to have a second Heir, not without a uterine replicator. You remember the stories.” Many, many mistresses. No extant bastard children. Trips to the doctor. Eventually marrying a woman _he despised._ Of his own bloodline, and a great many doctors’ trips before a child was born. “The plan was that she would be raised carefully and then take the Count-ship. He was probably going to kill off his brother, remove that particular threat after he took over the Regency.” The Lady Yvette had returned her cousin’s feelings, they had seen that when they had protected her. “They love each other, Boris. We both know that she would not _trust_ ,” Andrei spit it out, what he had realized about the background of that relationship. “someone who was not incredibly close to her.”

“How could she?” Boris knew that part. “When those she has trusted in the past have forsworn oaths.” Her father-the-Count, her Uncle-the-Count. The Lady Yvette had not even reached out to them—her mother had never contacted them to ascertain her condition. Her damn mother. “The Lady Yvette has never contacted her.”

“The Lady Yvette,” Andrei accepted Boris’ hissed words and mumbled curse words. “may have had a duty to the girl—”

“She broke oaths.” The Lady Yvette was a matter of conversation that they had avoided around Sofia, who had simply never understood why the woman had never even reached out.

The Lady Yvette had been a person of interest in the Vordarian family in their youths and even into their time in the service—the daughter of Xavier Vordarian, the second son of the Count-Who-Made-a-Treaty, Victor Vordarian.

Victor Vordarian was his own, long, multifaceted story, as was his wife’s, the Princess-Countess Ysilla.  Their two sons, Yan and Xavier had come to adulthood during the Cetagandan Invasion, both had married. Yan to an Escobaran woman, and Xavier to Elisevet, the daughter of the Bey of the снег Tribe. When the brothers and their wives had died, Vidal and Vincent and eventually Yvette had been raised by their grandparents.

Yvette had wished to go to her mother’s family—a family now led by an uncle who had welcomed her into his tent as kin. That had been the start of the tension. Eventually, her uncle’s wife, finding her in her uncle’s bed, had forced the issue and had the girl sent to her paternal grandparents. Eventually, when her cousin had looked for a wife, she had been his first choice.

That, their suspicion had been, was because Yvette was at least of House Vordarian. There were _legal_ reasons on occasion to marry that close to the bloodline. As it was, Yvette had been greedy for attention but not particularly wise with how she used the power of her position. Eventually, her husband had hired a chatelaine for her duties and put her on a very small allowance—and hostilities had increased when several valuables had gone missing around the Stronghold.

They had spent the two years before and the two years after the Count Sofia’s birth essentially as the then-Countess Yvette’s prison guards, ensuring that she did not allow another man into her bed (the first incident had been what had triggered her receiving a dedicated detail).

The final straw had been when they had had to report to the Count that the then-Countess Yvette was selling District Secrets to the highest bidder. When the Count Sofia was two, her father had officially divorced the Lady Yvette and initiated a security review of the whole District. The Lady Yvette had been stripped of the right to a future dowry from the House for the earlier adultery, and Andrei firmly believed that the only reason that she was not executed by the House for treason was because of her position as a daughter of the House. As it was, she was exiled from the Stronghold to a smaller holding with a network of guards that constantly changed and limited access to the outside world, none at all to the political and trade ramifications of House Vordarian.

“You do have a point, love. Do you think that the little lady or Lev are up yet?”


	4. a series of conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a series of conversations in a castle within a mountain. Some productive, some frustrating.  
> the Maroon and Gold pinterest board is here--https://www.pinterest.com/katiemichellegordon/maroon-and-gold/--it has many of the aesthetics for the  
> stories so far.

“I think that we’ve wrung Alyosha Vordrozda dry.” It was the report to the Emperor, and he worried that it would not be well received. However, it was accurate. “His information has been useful, but really, it’s now more his contacts that would be useful.” Agent Artes had never expected to be briefing the Emperor, not months before when he was posted to Beta Colony.

“Which contacts in particular?”

“His father, uncles, the Vor-lordling pack he ran with. More than one of that pack apparently has family that’s deeper into the conspiracy than Alyosha is.” Artes paused. “At one point during the interrogation something came up. The kid had someone that he liked, awhile back. His father got wind of it, put a stop to it, pulled him into this.” He pushed the rest of it out. “His father seems to have arranged for the kid’s girlfriend to die. Autopsy showed she was pregnant. Kid thinks that she had an accident, doesn’t know about the child.” He’d floated the idea past another person at ImpSec. “Kid’s evened out now he’s been weaned off of the drugs.”

“You want to try to flip him.” Illyan was giving him a _look_. There would _definitely be a conversation later that he would not like._ “A man who is guilty of treason.”

“A man who is guilty of listening to his father, the man who raised him and shaped his beliefs and his loyalties.” Artes paused, considered the next few words. “A man who is burning with rage at the world. He has no power save what his father allows him, and while he may be his father’s heir, it has become blatantly obvious to the team working him. His father did not even trust him enough to meet this potential usurper or know the man’s name.”

A hand rose—the Emperor stood.

“He has no more usable information.” Artes paused. “He has a great deal of anger. I suspect that with that anger and a great deal of careful handling, we could use him.” He looked around the room. He’d never actually had this opportunity before, any of it. “Besides, if it doesn’t work, he is still guilty of treason.” Could still be executed.

“Simon, your agent had the gumption to offer the idea, the brains to think it up.” The Emperor paused, and Artes supposed that the Emperor was considering his next words, the decision that would be made. “See if it works. Did any of his leads prove beneficial?”

“Increased surveillance on several of his father’s friends—” Artes sighed as his commanding officer took over and knew that he would be reamed later. However, perhaps that would be worth it. Besides, he had many things to think about. Like a plan to flip a traitor.

 

 

 

The tele-crew was in place—still setting up, and they would be for hours.

When she had awoken, her partner had been there, smiling down at her with a long list of accomplishments already in place on her work desk.

“I have already commed the Dean at the University. While he wishes to speak with you in person the first thing on the first morning of the workweek, he has agreed to allow you to teach the first week of classes via holo-projector. He seemed really happy about it, apparently it’s the first time they’ve been able to use the technology.”

“Thank you--” Sofia leaned up for a kiss only to receive one and a laughing push back into bed.

“Do not thank me just yet, there’s more.” With their third going to his home tribe, Lev had taken advantage of the quiet to arrange as much as possible. “We have heard back from three of the seven tribes. The proposed swearing in on the first day of the next weekend is acceptable, and that they will move to the tradition meeting place.” He paused to take a breath and looked down, offering Sofia a hand. “I have drafted invitations to the sixty Counts—they need signatures and your seal—for the swearing in here at the Stronghold this weekend—and I’ve verbally invited the neighboring Counts as well as our allies & the Emperor for the ceremony here.”

“You have been very busy.” Lev had also been incredibly helpful. They would not invite outsiders to the swearing in at the tribes, save perhaps for the Emperor. Their district’s relationship with the nomadic tribes was something that was not shared as closely with the neighboring districts’ whose plains they also occasionally roamed over. Frankly, all seven tribes being in Burya was not something that Sofia had expected—it had been something that she had been glad of, thought. She had been told a story of _tensions_ involved when a tribe had had to migrate home to Burya for another Count’s swearing in, so long ago.

“I also called over to the Vorkosigan armsmen to ask if they knew the doctor that the Family attends—they did. I called over, and I did make appointments, however—” Lev paused. “they seemed too enthusiastic. I have made a call to the Betan embassy for a recommendation. I know that you want to stay local, but privacy—”

“We shall see. We can always leave an appointment. If all else fails, we can go to a doctor in-District and qualify my and our health as a District Secret, as a security matter.” Sofia smiled at Lev.

“It would work—and if it got out, that classification would have already laid the groundwork for legal consequences.” Lev worded his approval.  While her partners’ approval would not always seal a decision, it was usually a good sign.

“Has the Auditor asked to speak with me?” While it wasn’t in his purview, the man had been making many of his financial finds available to her as they related to her District and the questionably previous Count’s choices.

By the time she finished her words, Sofia had realized that she had overslept—the sun was already peeking over the horizon through her rare window in the Stronghold; a privilege of being a high ranked member of the Count’s family. The Count’s personal rooms had more windows, but she would not move into those until they had been cleaned and cleaned out. Her Uncle’s tastes had been extravagant to her, even as a child. As an adult, she wanted the rooms deep cleaned and possibly exterminated.

“No, not yet. Andrei and Boris would like to speak with you. I’ve actually already sent for them and a light breakfast tray.”

“Why did you not say!” She struggled out of the blankets and up to her feet. “I need to clean myself, clothing—”

“I’ve laid out outfits. Let’s start with that shower." Lev moved to support her.

 

 

 

 

 

“Head office is sending us Vorpoppingham.” Ruri had not expected to end up running an ImpSec security and information gathering mission essentially supporting a Vordarian Count. In his home district. These were the kinds of assignments around far more _recently_ important Counts. He supposed that those things changed, and it certainly had heated up in his home district far faster than he had ever dreamed of.

“That’s--”Ruri hunted for the correct wording, avoiding sarcasm. The other man was technically his superior, as he had more time in rank. Here, for this assignment, Ruri had been assigned to team lead as their department head wanted every person with a certain degree of rank to have experience with the position. Ruri was starting to understand why. “going to be interesting. Do we have the official orders yet?”

“No, I only heard from a friend in acquisitions—he’s putting up a fuss about his kit for the transfer.”

“Good grief. What does he want—” Ruri stopped, breathed, dismissed that worry. That was something that could be dealt with later. “So, what have you learned?

“The head of the office in question says that the man doesn’t want rain gear. Or doesn’t get why there’s also riding, hiking, and boating gear included in the mission specs.”

“Oh grief.” Again. He would save the rudest words for the actual man. Ruri had been born in this District. Plains, and then the foothills that grew into the mountains proper. The mountains ended in Cliffs to the sea below. Part of the official brief as that Vordarian District, Burya as he had grown up calling it, had settlements in all of them. An active count would travel by water, horse, flitter, and foot. “I suppose that without an active security plan for the Count’s Progress, he _could_ think—”

“She has not officially announced one.” Boris and Andrei had entered the rooms that ImpSec was using within the Stronghold to coordinate their securities and information gathering operations; not the traditional separate building. Vorpoppingham would thoroughly throw a fit. Traditions weren't everything, and that odious man had yet to figure that fact out. 

It was Boris speaking. One of the Count’s younger pair was with the tribes, Ruri knew. Orel. The other had not left the Count’s rooms yet this morning, though he had spoken with Lev through the communications array while she presumably slept.

“Sir,” Ruri could not remember the correct form of address at the moment—usually ImpSec details around the high Vor were already formed and had a clearer hierarchy and relationship to the Vor’s entourage. The last time one had to be made, it had been for Miles Vorkosigan and that was made of the man’s fellow lunatics. “It will happen. The count will need to assert herself as Count within Burya.” The old nickname would—he saw the armsman place him as a locally born lad.

“I also have heard, though not through official channels, that we will be getting an additional man. Good relations with the armsmen would be an investment. “Vorpoppingham, according to my sources.”

Boris winced, almost imperceptibly, leading Ruri to wonder what precisely the man had done while in service. It was usually easier to read a man’s emotions on his face.

 

 

 

 

“I have been reminded to remember to delegate more.” Sleep, medications, and a hot soak had helped a great deal, as had the breakfast. Her Lev had still installed her in a large wingback chair in the study without allowing her feet to touch the ground.

“While I am aware that you don’t work for me, Auditor, would you be willing to share what you found with me?”

“I shouldn’t see why not—the Emperor actually instructed me to do so, unless it would endanger mission security. He seemed concerned about the District, and it’s wellbeing. Count, you will want to do your own research to check this, however, from your father’s records—”

Aleksandr Vorlemov moved into a recitation, and around the room Sofia met Andrei and Lev’s eyes.

“In short, even with the civil war, your father left the District with a hefty treasury, multiple sources of income, and a well-funded infrastructure. Once your uncle took power—” many more exact details that gave her enough information to form a picture. Sofia wished that a hand holding hers would comfort and not hurt right now—her people. _Oh, her people._ “As it stands, the District itself is in financial disarray. It looks like many of the municipalities have organized finances, but that’s mostly because they skimmed some of what they needed from the taxes that your uncle collected and then refused to redistribute. As it is, many are running on shoestrings, and he was trying to figure out how to get at what he _knew_ was being skimmed. He also massively overestimated what they were skimming.” She could appreciate that the municipal governments were taking care of their people, even if they were _technically_ committing tax fraud. That would take a bit to unravel—or she might have to re-write the tax codes. Perhaps an independent district tax commission with multiple oversights? The whole production would need a great deal of thought. “He was also committing fraud in the subsidies from the Emperor, his armsmen, and taxes on District Property—including not providing the services that he was traditionally required to in-District as landlord.”

“Where did the money that he stole go?” It was mostly gone, she would assume. The man seemed to have had spending issues.

“Mostly into his personal coffers. Some into unnamed accounts that I will be following up on.” He must suspect that they were funding the potential _coup_ , Sofia thought.

“Thank you.” She looked at her people around the room, and then over at Ruri Korchanek. The young man was heading the ImpSec presence here, and from what she had seen of him, fairly well. “I will be announcing an official Progress when I have spoken with the University, and after I go to the Tribes next weekend.” Sofia met the younger man’s eyes. “You should plan for a mobile set up—we will be riding horses for most of the trip, and then camping in yurts. We are not staying on the infrastructure—my armsmen are currently looking into portable bathing and toileting measures if need be.” She would take care not to be a burden on her people until she had a better understanding of the various economies. Besides, favoritism was not a game that she wished to play. “You will also want to plan around visits to local villages and cities. I will be providing access to my official and unofficial schedules—Officer Korchanek—you have visual access, not access to change anything. If you need to change something or need more details, Andrei is your contact for that. Be aware that making those changes is a process—you will get an answer the next day.”

“Aye.”

“Count!” Boris walked into the room. “We have received news of two more riders coming in from the tribes.” He smiled. “One is Orel. He will make it to the ceremony!”


	5. organization, conversations, and reunifications

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last few moments until the swearing in. Returning from the Tribes. A conversation in Vorkosigan's District.

“I met someone,” Sofia had arranged for a quiet luncheon alone for the three of them. “at the tribe.” Orel’s words were unsurprising, given that once he had shed his outer jacket, a large bruise was creeping up past his under shirt. “I think that you will like him, both of you. I also think that he will be someone of interest for you both to know—he’s the son of the Bey.”

Sofia listened to him, happy that he was back and that they were able to make time for this, even if perhaps they shouldn’t’ have.

 

 

 

 

We’re going to the swearing in.” Aral looked into the library, waiting at the doorway to be noticed before approaching his son, nose-deep in a book. “Miles—”

“A second swearing in?” Miles placed a bookmark into Different Districts: One Emperor, Many Empires. Aral would have to read that one as well. “It makes sense. She will swear to her people, then?”

“Yes.” A breath. “According to her armsman, it’s being televised and will be on every public screen in her district.”

“So we should dress accordingly.” His son put together the dots to make a better picture. “When is the swearing in Father?”

“Dawn, tomorrow.” At his answer, his son winced.

“We’re leaving shortly, aren’t we? Where will we stay tonight?”

“The invitation included lodging inside their Stronghold.” Aral had been as a child, when his aunt had been Countess. “It’s gorgeous. They built the Stronghold into the cliff itself—a cliff that goes straight down into the ocean below. Their legends say that it’s never been taken by force. The Count’s father once told me that they had considered housing every person sworn to them within the cliffs—and then it was discovered that the Cetagandans had gas—poisonous air.”

“Everyone?”  Miles had looked up as much about Vordarian District as he could find—he had not actually been to bed yet, “They have enough of their cliffs carved out that it’s viable?”

“It would not surprise me.” Aral remembered exploring in those tunnels, protective armsmen following them. He had learned after their fun that the armsmen had tagged both of them with locators-the brother had refused to participate in his and Vidal’s fun. It had seemed like a dream later, after Yuri’s Massacre.

The Vordarians had pulled in and gone on high alert—and had sent Yuri the head of every one of his agents in their district after the deaths.

Evidence that Ezar’s men had later uncovered showed that the mad emperor had plotted to eventually attack his half-sister in her husband’s holdings.

“Father, are we bringing a guest present?”

 

 

 

“My father left the Count-your-father’s service after you mother was divorced.” Orel had not put the timelines together before talking with his father. “On good terms.” Orel’s time in the tribe had been productive, he thought—in multiple ways. “He will be at the Swearing In, the renewal of the Pact at the Tribes—you may want to ask him more about the details. He gave me vague details that Boris and Andrei may have more information about.” Lev listened, Sofia sitting between them in the hoverchair that they had found in storage. “It sounds like, to me, that the divorce was about more than sexual indiscretions, it was about political and financial indiscretions. Bad enough that her detail reported on her behavior to you father, eventually working to keep her under house-arrest.”

“-- ” Sofia’s rude word raised Orel’s questioning brow. True, she did curse, but that kind of vehemence was rare. “I knew that she was an uninterested mother—” Sofia actually remembered her father scheduling mother-daughter time for the two of them. Her mother had shown up, but barely interacted with her. She remembered more of the Princess Kareen than her mother. “but I did not realize that she was a threat to the District.”

“Sofia?” Lev and Orel met her eyes.  
“Remind me to ask Andrei and Boris for more information about this—after the Swearing In is done, we need to review everything we have on her.” Sofia forced a breath out. “If she was a threat before, I doubt that that has changed since.”  But for the moment, the Swearing In at dawn was a priority—it and her preparations for that.

“It gets worse.” Orel looked worried. “Father mentioned Prince Serg as one of her indiscretions.”

It was Lev that cursed this time; and Sofia would have echoed him if she wasn’t worried about the political ramifications. Prince Serg. She had known that the man was psychotic even before she had learned about it in school. Her father had mentioned it more than once-and she had the vaguest of memories of the man.

Apparently, he had wanted the camp stool early, tried to make it happen—her father had said once to her; ‘A foolish man is easily led, a psychotic one is unpredictable. Together as a ruler, empires fall.’

“We keep that between the three of us for now,” Sofia pushed her food around on her plate. “If your father has more information, then it goes to ImpSec and the Auditor.” It could be problematic for the legitimacy of her rule if the information wasn’t handled correctly.

 

“The Count will want to see him.” Andrei told Ruri Korchanek, his current favorite member of ImpSec. His eyes turned to the padd that held a copy of the day’s schedule and started thumbing through. Korchanek and ImpSec had a basic version though without the ability to alter it themselves or see some of the details. A thumb down let him check. “You’re lucky, space has opened up unexpectedly.” Actually, he wasn’t moving anything—she’d left a gap for this briefing but no need for that asshat Vorpoppingham to know. Man didn’t need a bigger head. Korchanek wouldn’t let on that it had been discussed in the midmorning meeting.

“I want to see her—”

“She is in an important meeting.”

 

“No.”

“As the first—”

“No, I will not allow you to film my preparations for tomorrow morning’s events.” As it was, her armsmen had had to shut down parts of the Stronghold to the inquisitive media.

Taking up a full side of a table that had been moved into the receiving room, Sofia leaned back in her hoverchair. Behind her, the large seat central to the room had a back like a radiant sun, carved with a motif of horses, mountains, and waves, raised up on a dais.

Her table was in front of the dais by about ten feet and had notebooks, pads, a portable communications console, and several books.

There was the chair that she sat in, one chair next to her elbow that her armsman stood behind, and the Seat behind her.

Petitioners were left to shift from foot to foot in the central area of the Grand Receiving Room.

“What I will allow are twenty-minute interviews tonight and tomorrow afternoon with myself, the head of the Stronghold Kitchens, and my armsman who is handling many of the details of the ceremony in the morning. Questions will have to be approved and straying from the topic of how the Swearing In was planned and executed is not acceptable.”

Pavel Utkin nodded. As producer of Burya North Eight, the local district-funded news station, he practically vibrated when offered the option to televise. Vorbarra Central had been filming at Vorhartung with an intern on the camera and without a reporter or interviews. Her career had been made, and Sofia was actually hoping that the woman might end up at BN8—local talent could use a bit of competition to kickstart some local careers.

“I see.” Sofia liked that so far that he was listening. “we would lose rights for future access if we don’t follow the rules, correct?”

“Mr. Utkin, as a district funded televising and media company, you, those who breached, and anyone who supported it would be removed from your positions. You would be remanded to custody in case there had been district security breaches, and the company would be remade. Large parts of the graduating class of broadcasting and communications students at Burya Plains University and Vordarian University were suddenly given their dream jobs.” Sofia waited and watched as the brutality of her words sunk in, the man blanched.

“I see.” Milk was not a shade that sat well on the man’s olive skin.

“However, if the special that you make goes well, an exclusive interview about my return to Barrayar as well as a negotiation about coverage for when I go to the Tribes to renew the Pact>” She smiled as the man’s eyes filled with a greedy sort of hope and Orel shifted at her elbow. “How does that sound?”

“Yes, it sounds acceptable. Ma’am, my Count, rather. May I ask why you are volunteering that but threatening so much about this?” The man did have guts, she had to give him that.

“No.” She looked down at the list of major petitions for the day. “You may not. Talk to my Armsman Boris or Armsman Lev about setting up the interviews for later. They have the schedule. Lev will be the one approving the questions. You may go.” The man bowed slightly, walking backwards toward the door before opening it to leave.

The door shut behind him, “It’s a security nightmare here to have that kind of filming on such short notice.” Sofia admitted. “The Pact would work better because—”

“It’ll be in a yurt. One yurt.” Orel finished. “Vorpoppingham is here. And an Agent Korchanek?”

“Korchanek is the ImpSec squad leader for the detail. Part of this meeting is to impress to Vorpoppingham that he answers to Korchanek, who liaises with you, Lev, Boris, and Andrei.  As Lev is unofficially handling all of the details of a personal assistant, and Boris is coordinating security—he needs to speak with Korchanek first, then Boris or Lev depending on the situation. If it is night, then it goes to the duty armsman.”

“You’re furious at him.”

“He tried to speak over the person who is now the Count Vordarian and treat me like a child.” Sofia let out pain, and how her irritation with the situation, normally kept close, loosen her lips on the subject. “If he tries to interfere without cause, he will be remanded to custody.” She forced out a breath and shoved down the irritation, the anger. “Send him in.”

 

 

“That was—intense.” The last meeting of the day was over with. Interviews done. “How much time left until everything starts?”

“You are going to head to bed to sleep.” Orel leaned down and against her, pressed a kiss to her hair. “At half an hour to midnight, Lev and I will wake you, help you dress, and then start to head to the shrine. Boris and Andrei will join us, and then the vigil will begin.”

“Five hours,” Lev entered the Grand Receiving Room, closing the door behind him. “Five hours for the vigil. At 5 am, Boris will fetch the horses for the progression to the Great Hall, where those who are not along the streets will be gathered. I’ve set up the ceremonial goods in a safe.”

“I enter the Hall without support, walking alone through the center to the dais, where you and Andrei will have walked ahead and opened the safe and set them out along the table.” She breathed, remembering the ceremony. It was an older version of what her father had once sworn, Sofia had seen the filmed footage of that. Her Uncle had neglected to swear at all, save by putting his hands between the Emperor’s. Their position was a duty, not a gift. They swore to their people, to protect them, lead them, ensure their survival. “I turn, I swear, and then I kneel.” Sofia breathed out. “I finish by taking the loaves of bread—” One piece of bread, wine, salt for her people. “We can do this?”

Lev joined the embrace, wrapping his arms around them both. “We can do this. Keep them safe.” He pressed his own kisses to heads. “Now to bed. Midnight will come too soon.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At last, the swearing in.
> 
> Yes, it happened. Yes, the next two chapters are almost finished, I just was finally able to piece this together. Yes, I am aware the 'House of' is GRRM inspired. That last bit, I know. No, I'm not changing that.

The outer robe was heavy enough that kneeling and raising herself to stand were both a feat of strength.  
Altered from a previous Count’s greatcoat, the robe as it tried to stand on its own was the maroon of her House’ colors, the embroidered thread of gold as thick as yarn.   
Sophia had knelt to hold vigil in the family’s shrine in it’s heavy weight. The weight would be removed as she walked from the shrine to the Stronghold.  
The trappings of a traditional assumption of the Countship in Burya dated back to the days when the Darians had held Burya as petty kings. They paralleled the Coronation of the Emperor in some ways, information that she had learned from her armsmen.  
Kneeling in vigil for the night was to be a dedication of one’s self to the service of the people. At some degree, it was also to seek guidance from history, memory, or belief.  
Intellectually, she knew that ancestor worship was the form of faith of most of Barrayar, a form that entwined with a hierarchical feudal power system in a way that supported that system well. No one wold intervene or guide, instead to be honored and obeyed, both. Tradition without reason in some ways.  
Here she knelt, hoping for guidance whether from memory or ghost. Dedication was left chilling her to the bone in the room with the stone floor.  
The dawn crept closer, and with a lightening sky.

 

With the light came the traditional runner. He held the summons and spoke it, voice echoing to the crowds gather outside of the shrine.  
“Child of Daria, Burya calls for you.”  
In keeping with tradition, she rose.  
Stiffly, carefully, painfully. Tears welled even as her corset helped distribute the pressures and weight of her garments.  
“What does Burya ask of a child of Daria?”  
“Burya has lost it’s ruler. Would a child of Daria come to the Stronghold?”  
“What does Burya ask of a child of Daria at the Stronghold?”  
The call and response was quite traditional, the questioning a public show of the reasoning and her duty.  
“To come inside.”  
“Why should a child of Daria, a woman once stolen to the Stronghold and held against her will come into the Stronghold?”  
Three questions.  
“To guide, nurture, shelter, protect, and to support the people of Burya.” Three traditional answers.  
“Does Burya ask me to rule, then?” The last, traditional, question.  
“In peace, in war. In plenty and scarcity, Burya asks Sophia, child of Daria, to rule Burya. Will you come to the Stronghold to rule?”  
“I will come.” With that, the  pilgrimage through the city started on foot, up and into the Stronghold proper.

 

As Daria had been driven on foot into the Stronghold, the petty kings and now the Counts Vordarian walked from vigil to Stronghold along cobbled streets that gave way to paved.  
For Sophia it hurt, and every cobbled stone made it’s mark known through the leather of her shoe.   
The streets themselves were mobbed. Some attempt had been made at cordoning off the path to leave room for her entourage. Here, Bors, Andrei, Orel, and Lev flanked her as a moving column as the master of ceremonies led them.  
Rather, his apprentice did, as the man himself was quite elderly. He was waiting in the Great Hall with the more aristocratic guests and the majority of the news crew.  
Sophia suspected  that in both crowds there were the agents of interested parties. After all, she would do the same.   
Babes in arm to grandmothers leaning upon the arms of family had joined together to watch, whisper, reach, and scream. Somewhere in the crowd she expected that there was an enterprising entrepreneur selling souvenirs of dubious origin to profit. Given that they had released some from her father’s Swearing In, the District might even make a cut.  
The event was boosting the local economy, even with the minimal notice. Lodgings and caterers, let alone taverns and restaurants had been flooded by visitors here for the ceremony.

 

 

“I have brought them.”   
At the doors to the Stronghold, the apprentice of the Master of Ceremonies  stopped.  
“Who have you brought?”  
“A child of Daria.”  
“Who have you brought?”  
“Sophia of House Vordarian, child of Vidal Vordarian.”  
“Who have you brought?” The call and responses would be broadcast.  
“The Vordarian. Sophia Vidalovna Vordarian.”  
“You may enter.” The doors swung open.   
Sophia put every foot with care, taking solace in the underpinnings that stabilized her spine, hips, and spread out the weight of the traditional vestments that they had found in cold storage.  
It has been in the days of the so-called petty kings that Burya had last been led by a woman.  
Floor length overdress heavily embroidered with pearls, gold over red wool. A hair veil, covering hair and neck. Topped with an intricately beaded headdress, echoing the sun and horse motifs from around the Stronghold. It had not been the only extant gown or the most sumptuous. However, its provenance that the woman’s coronation painting both gave her a flawless piece of politics to put on display. Tangibly linking themselves to a dynasty of centuries, and reminding visitors of the power that they had chosen  to give to the Emperor? That could only support her and her family.  
The gown itself? The gold had come from the mines, the pearls from the sea, wool and the fabric itself from the Tribes’ weavers, and sewn by hand by a local atelier. The fur at the gown’s cuffs and on the abandoned greatcoat mantle had been from animals killed by that petty king’s hands. Interestingly, queen in Burya had always connoted the spouse, male or female, of the leader. King was, here, a word with out gender.  
Thinking on that, the wardrobe perhaps called for a curator, conservationists, and perhaps a museum.   
The doors into the Great Hall opened.  
The official Master of Ceremonies stood on the raised dais, witnesses lining the path. Directly next to the path she would take were those dressed in a mix of veterans’ uniforms and armsmen’s formals for the District.  
Each step creaked inside her bones even as Lev and Orel took places below the dais and stood ready to help her up to Bors and Andrei upon it. One pair above the step, one below, a bracket if she fell.  
One step up, one, two, three steps forward to face the man. His investment robes echoed hers in opulent fabric and stark design. Both were a product of the district, as would be the apprentice’s robes.  
“Who comes before the people of Burya?”  
“A child of Daria.”  
“Why do you come before the people of Burya?”  
“I was summoned by name, by bloodline, and by the people to come into the Stronghold and present myself to Burya and her people.”  
“Why did they ask you to come before them, here, at the strength of Burya?  
“I was asked to serve the people of Burya.”  
Whispers went through the visitors to the District.  
“Sophia, child of Vidal Vordarian, child of Yvette Vordarian, your people call upon you to serve them. What shall you swear by?”  
“The rage of the storm and the quiet of the cavern, the roots of the future and the dust of the past. By these things I shall swear.”  
“Then Sophia Vidalovna, will you step forward for our people, to protect, guard, guide. To support and nurture. Step forward, kneel, and swear?”  
The dais grew crowded as the great sword was brought to the Master of Ceremonies’ podium, and a series of youths with a set of small bowls stepped into place.  
Sophia let herself turn and kneel before her people. As the Vorkosigans and Vorrutyers put their hands between their liege lords to swear, that had spread through Barrayar. In Burya, the liege lord knelt to the people first, their vulnerability a physical show of their service to their people.  
“I shall swear.”  
“Make your oath.”  
“With the strength of my will and my sword, I will protect my people.” Sophia laid the great sword on the floor, near at hand.  
“With stone, I shall more, support, and shelter my people.” She took the offered bowl of pebbles from one of the youths.  
“With grain, meat, and leaf I shall feed my people.” Each new bowl was arrayed in front of her.  
Finally, an empty bowl.  
“With my mind I shall make wise decisions. With ears and mouth I will listen to and give advice. With my alliances I shall support and be supported.”  
She placed that bowl and took up her sword, opening an incision on her lower arm, draining blood into the bowl.  
“By the blood of my ancestors we took and held Burya and our Stronghold for our people. By my blood I shall hold this place for our people to be safe until I have none more to give. This I so swear.”  
Her sword in her hand, the Master of ceremonies took the bowl from the other, dipping a finger inside and darting to anoint forehead, mouth, breast, and hands.  
“May your mind stay pure to purpose. May your choices and words be wise. May your heart be calm and empathetic. May your hands heal, build, succor, and strike true as needed.”  
The last words echoed into moments of silence as her oath settled with the weight of the consecration and into her breath. Her words were spoken, her vows made.  
“Take sword and rise, Sophia Vidalovna of the Darians, leader of Burya. Walk amongst your people as the Count Vordarian!”  
Swords rung as they were thrown into an arch and Sophia pushed up to her feet, sword beginning to take the stain of her blood on it’s grip and sliding down onto the blade.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What things next?

“That was—” a pause of time stolen away from between kneeling to her people & her duty and networking with the neighboring Counts.

  
“Exhausting would work, dear.” Boris had her seated and was putting away the paraphernalia of the chemical adrenaline and the painkillers. “You held vigil through the night and then walked to the Stronghold. We held it with you.”

  
“You are—”

  
“Not ill enough that your physician on Beta advised specifically against similar scenarios.” Boris fired back. “You know that there is a price to pay for such shenanigans.”

  
“Any advice about the reception?”

  
“Sofia, you have invited several of your father’s allies from the Pretendership. There is also the Vorkosigan contingent; the so-called Loyalists.”

  
“A careful line to dance,” Sofia admitted. “To avoid favoring either.”

  
“You are plotting.”

  
“Boris, I am a sitting Count and either heir or third in line for the camp stool. Plotting is part of my life, whether as a target or as a strategist.” She smiled at the man who had mentored her and still stood as close to a father as she had. “How many brought sons?”

  
“Too many.” Boris winced. “Heirs, spares, some cousins. Some brothers. One of the neighboring Counts brought every unmarried male relative.”

  
“Well then, Time to receive them all and make the appearance of considering their offers of a stud for trade.

  
“Sofia!” She smiled. 

 

 

 

  
“Lord Miles.”

  
“Count Vordarian.”

  
“Sofia, please. How do you like the Stronghold?” So far, the least objectionable of the bunch. She did suspect that his father warned him off of being too interested—the man, after all, had ruled an empire and would understand the concerns of her position.   
“It’s amazing.” The windows in the suite that he and his parents were sharing were made out of clear aluminum. “I heard that your archives were interesting as well?”

  
“They are going to need to be reorganized.”

“Is that Lord Miles speaking with the Count Vordarian?” One person whispered to another.  
“Do you think that they are courting?”

 

 

 

“Count Vordarian, may I introduce Count Voromanov?” Byerly Vorrutyer, apparently, was putting himself to good use. He had taken over and was outright insuring that the appropriate mingling was happening to encourage social and political niceties.

  
She recognized the District— abutting hers— by name. They were also seaside, but further south. Warmer water and flatter land. Their Count himself was broad of shoulders with brownish hair and a nose that had been broken a few times. Next to him were several men along a similar build, with coordinating house uniforms.

  
“Count Voromanov,” she inclined her head, and did not offer a hand.

  
“Count Vordarian, a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” She placed him—his family had supported her father and the previous Count had died as a result. The man had come unexpectedly into the Countship. “My heir, Karol.” So the mating dance began, each son being introduced, more detail being given about the man’s younger sons. Military exploits. Responsibilities.

 

 

 

  
Long minutes later, Orel leaned in and spoke quietly in Escobaran.

  
“I see hunting season is open.”

Sofia laughed, replying in her grandmother’s tongue.

 

  
“An ounce more of political sense and they would know that I have no intention to marry Vor.”  
She caught a side eye from the Count Vorkosigan. So he spoke some Escobaran. “Count Vorkosigan, care to join us?” She raised an eyebrow at the man as he drew closer.

  
“Not planning on marrying one of these fine specimens of Vor man-hood?” His Escobaran was stilted, but serviceable. “Good choice on a language for private conversations.”

  
“It works, especially with how few people on Barrayar speak it.” Not so much within her District, with their small population of Escobaran descendants, but she would not bring that up to the man. Her Orel was smiling, that familiar tilt of his head as he flirted with the Count, and she butted in.

  
“Which is the point.” She could see why Orel flirted. Even silvering, the Count Vorkosigan was handsome. In fact, their Lev had a similar set of face. “To the previous statement; I am the child of first cousins.” She had run her genes on Beta Colony. “Marrying any of the neighboring Vor families is actually not a terrible idea genetically, my family has managed to keep a diverse gene pool. We generally have married off world or within our District. Occasionally we’ve married girls out. It means that I’m not as closely related to our neighbors as I could be.” The Vorkosigans and the Vorbarras, however, she was too closely related to to marry, in her own opinion.

 

  
 “Besides, marrying within the District has a different benefit—some of your people—” the Count Vorkosigan tried, and she cut him off.

  
“You mean, by creating a closer bond between the people and their rulers?” Sofia cut straight through to that chase. “Every one of the Vorbarr Sultana Vor think as if Barrayar is a monoculture. We in Burya have married into our local population, wed to our People.” She paused, contemplated, admitted. “We are not an unbroken line. The daughters, nephews, and cousins of Counts and petty kings have been called to rule before. Humans—well, you know.”

 

 

 

 

 

“We are going to have to do that again for a wedding.” Lev was carefully unbuttoning each button as Orel supported the weight of the gown and Sofia held herself up, bracing against a chair. The damn gown gould stand up on its own.

  
Finally, the last button was undone and the gown sagged into Orel’s hands. Lev moved to brace her and help remove the sleeves before lifting her up into the air. Orel swiftly pulled the gown away as Lev put her down in her petticoat, chemise, and corset. Leggings had replaced the traditional bloomers as practicality and her own preference had taken precedence. 

  
Orel, she watched, moved to put the gown on the mannequin they had also dug out from the depths of the Vordarian Vaults. She remembered the gown from hiding inside a chest there as a child—hide and seek a fun game as her father had hunted down paperwork or such inside the code-locked vaults.

  
He then laid down her sleep corset on the bed, next to the medical kit. 

  
“The staff pulled a bath. There is also a light snack by the bath.”

  
“Light snack?” Her Lev was chuckling at Orel’s words, leaning across to kiss their lover. “He is understating. Two types of sandwiches; meat and cucumber, juice, and a sweet desert. A fruit platter as well.”

  
“That is a meal.” Sofia laughed.

  
“Given that none of us ate more than a mouse at dinner, it does make sense. They were keeping an eye.”

  
“Sofia, some of the staff were here for your birth.” Lev dropped a kiss on her and she leaned into their affection and love. “Medication now or later?”

  
“Now.” She was looking forward to the bath. Afterward, they might forget. She had no time for brain haze tomorrow—there was too much to do.”

  
After the syringe, Lev pressed affection into her skin as he and Orel undressed them all. 

  
The Count’s bath was hewn from the rock itself, able to help parents treasure teaching a young child to swim or to play witha small harem. It dated back centuries, with submerged seats, heated water, and gorgeous waterfall. The addition of a floating tray was an indulgence as they submerged to the clavicle, breastbone, and just underneath the chin as they moved through the sections of the water before sitting comfortably. The buoyancy helped with the pain some, alleviating the relentless pull of gravity.

  
“Do you think we are ready?” Orel pressed a kiss to Lev’s knuckles before stealing a sandwich up and pressing it upon Sofia. “For—”

  
“A marriage? Children?” Lev tried to fill in the blank. “Our duty—the duty to keep our people safe—part of that is an Heir.”

“A legitimate heir.” 

  
“I—Lev, Orel—I love you.” Sofia took the bite, chewed, moved to Orel’s lap and tugged until Lev moved as close as they could manage in the water, keeping himself in place with his hands. “I will not wed someone who does not understand that. Perhaps—we have talked about the Tribes before.”

  
“They do have group marriage.” Orel cradled her with her hips nestled in. 

“A Count cannot participate in one—Barrayaran law.” Lev kissed her. Orel pressing against them, hands assuring, lips an impression upon skin.

  
“Barrayaran law is that each District has it’s own rites, rights, and customs, subject to Imperial law.”  Orel took Lev’s interruption of the point. “We are of Burya. Group marriage is our law.” Perhaps, she thought, they could press the point.

 

 

 

 

“I would like to extend my gratitude on how well the last few days have gone. The Swearing In went well, a glory of your service to this House, and I received many complements from a variety of guests that I wanted to pass on. An excellent job was also done in keeping the media out of private areas without seeming excessive…or being noticed an commented upon my the media or by our guests. Well done.”

Their Count leaned back in her chair, glanced over the faces of those in the Grand Receiving Hall.

  
“The last few days have been very busy, which has effected choices that I have made. This meeting should have taken place earlier, and it will clarify our plans for the next few months.”

  
“I will start at the beginning, what should have happened, and theoretically why. My Father, Count Vidal Vorkosigan, had me recognized as his heir, placing me over his brother’s place in the line of ascension.This happened when I was a child, in a private meeting between my father and the Emperor Ezar, and that meeting was documented in addition to my Father’s registered and submitted will. I was about five years old when my Father-the-Count died. My Uncle moved to usurp and destroy records here. I was not old enough to fully understand. That in itself was criminal. However, an Official Imperial inquiry was started recently due to financial inconsistencies.” There had been, she knew, concerns within  the District itself. To hear that the Emperor himself had become concerned was certainly something to Alyx. What, she was not sure yet. “My uncle has been chained in Vorhartung’s Square for treason.”

  
Relief? Reassurance?

  
Alyx shifted, listening.

  
“The District is still the subject of an Imperial Investigation. Auditor Vorlemov will be in-District as it continues. As it stands, I and my four sworn armsmen are going to be reviewing all of those sworn to the House in service over the next few months. This is not a reflection of you or your service—my Uncle was misappropriating funds, some of which involved pay.”

  
“Some of you may have noted that my Uncle’s armsmen are not in residence. As is the place and choice of a count, I will be meeting with each man and their families individually.”

Reassurance, perhaps concern curdled in her gut.

“I will be meeting with the Stronghold’s staff over the next few days. I will be taking questions and concerns with each department, and I will be recording them for the ability to swiftly, accurately, and easily follow up on each concern.”Their Count looked around and Alyx felt her catch her eyes before moving on.

“Use the time to consider questions and concerns. Oh—” Their Count gestured. “Andrei and Boris are in charge of security and liaise with the ImpSec detail that has moved into the Stronghold. Lev and Orel handle more of my scheduling. The person in charge of the ImpSec detail is Ruri Korchanek. He is the only member who has the ability to make decisions that affect any of you. Any concerns that you have with the ImpSec detail? Please come to me or the Armsmen immediately. We can start getting the concerns sorted.”

  
A useful meeting, Alyx thought as she moved to her duties. Meeting the Count, understanding expectations, demands, and the plans for the next few months would be helpful to understand what was going on around her, even if she wasn’t involved with the planning.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The official Count’s Study was a mess. Unorganized, the occasional plate of molding sandwich; frankly he suspected that the last Count had relied on the servants to clean and then banned them from the room and had been unwilling to make up the difference. From his sole meeting with the man, he had then whined about it and possibly blamed the staff for the mess.

  
Not a logical or a neat man.

  
He had ended up starting his hunt by cleaning, sending out the dishes, molding food, and occasional mug. The new Count had stopped by once after he had started his hunt, after his last briefing, and looked about ready to cry before the Armsman-household member—who was a few steps behind her had come to her elbow and whispered something in her ear. 

  
That had not been a relationship that he had expected; precisely how close the Count was with her younger Armsmen. He had expected that they would be far more akin to brothers, and Aleksandr woundered how long it would take Vorpatril and Vorruttyer to pick up on that. Perhaps they would not get it at all.

  
As it was, her personal entanglements would be hard to read as a visitor to the household. It also had no bearing on the case—yet.

  
It had been—not something that he had expected. An Imperial Summons, a very explicit interview with the Emperor, the Head of ImpSec, and the Prime Minister, and then he had been told why.

  
“Treason. Financially, possibly plotting to remove the Emperor and replace him.” The more that he had heard, the more concerned and confused he was to why he had been summoned.

  
“New, younger blood. Not a player in the political game.” A pause. “Also, you understand, have studied, and have taught forensic accounting.”

  
Months later, Andrew Vorlemov could foresee many months more on the investigation, if not necessarily on this particular lead. He had learned how to manage multiple person investigations, coordination with ImpSec, some techniques with fastpenta, and way too much about the High Vor for his preferences.

  
He also had learned that he like investigation, as well as the coordinating efforts involved. While he doubted he would have one of the permanent Auditorial positions, given that they were currently filled and none of their holders looked close to death, perhaps a position as an occasional holder of the temporary seal would be a theme of his future.It was certainly giving him ideas on his career options moving forward.

  
Andrew sighed, picked up his mug of coffee, and took a sip. The servants had left a tray with a carafe, milk, and some slightly stale breakfast pastries—probably from the morning and as his mother would have put it ‘in need of eating up.’ His mother had not been one to tolerate throwing things away.

  
It definitely had been spectacular—that morning.

  
The books that he had found so far were—. Well, he had found the Count’s father’s books for the district, households in district and Vorbarr Sultana, two separate mistresses, the Tribes, and trade. The Tribes’ books had been an interesting find that he had enjoyed, leading to several very fast history lessons. He had found the books, from roughly the same times, that had detailed the man’s brother’s household as well as that of the wife that had eventually been divorced.

  
Both had had parallel books from their Count’s side, which had echoed a suspicion that he had had from the beginnings of his research—that the Count Vidal Vordarian had held strong concerns about his family’s finances.

  
The man had left notes over everything.

  
He opened a new book of finances, and sighed, turning on his voice recorder for notes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“What did you think of the messenger?” 

Osman leaned forward.

  
Several of the tribe’s younger members leaned in. They were parents, warriors, healers, craftspeople—the sole teacher as well.

  
Some had even met Orel. All were interested in his impression of the man and the one he was sworn to. A new Count meant change and that change could be positive or negative.

  
His father, unfortunately, ad not been as interested.

“Loyal to his Count.” Osman realized that he would need to qualify that. “He has been a part of the Count’s household since childhood—he accompanied her and the team that went with her to Beta Colony.”

  
“Very loyal, then.” The teacher was one of the few in the tribe who had been appointed by Vidal Vordarian during his tenure as Count. “May also have her ear.”

  
“I would suspect so.” Osman agreed. “Especially given conversations that we had about the time spent on Beta Colony.”

  
“Was he—did he seem very different than most district folk?” One of the parents asked. He and his husband had taken in their nieces and nephews following their parents’ deaths, but had run into trouble when the Imperial Veteran’s service had refused to recognize the children's’ parents’ marriage—legal in the Tribes, but not in the District or Imperial holdings.

  
A successful petition to the Count could force the issue of family death benefits.

  
“Definitely he is. The Count, perhaps. Probably.” Osman had read through the other man’s obfuscations. Orel shared his heart with a man and a woman. Given other conversations, the man was his sword brother, the woman; she whom he was sworn to.

“They spent the last fifteen years off world. I am without a doubt that they took full advantage of the learning opportunities there.” He paused, considered his audience. “I think that it will be a good thing.”

  
There was more consideration within the tent. 

 

 

 

 

 

“The Count will want to see.” Andrei told Ruri Korchanek, his current favorite member of ImpSec. His eyes turned to the padd that held a copy of today’s schedule, and started thumbing through. Korchanek and ImpSec had a basic version, through without the ability to alter or see some details. A thumb down let him check. “You’re lucky, space has opened up unexpectedly.” Actually, he wasn’t moving anything, the Count had ordered a gap left for this briefing, but no need to let that asshat know. Korchanek wouldn’t let on that it had been discussed in the midmorning meeting.

  
“I want to see her—”

  
“She is in an important meeting.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Half of the interplanetary contingent at the Academy.” Illyan paused, collected his thoughts, and went backwards and on into the breach. He had not expected this turn of events. “I should start over. So the Count Vordarian has retained her position as a professor, and is currently indicated to finish up her last contracted year.” 

  
His emperor nodded, following.

  
“She will be teaching three of her classes at the Vorbarr Sultana University. Via holo-projection actually, live from the Stronghold in the heart of her District. The students at the University of two of her smaller seminars on galactic politics and Escobaran language & politics respectively petitioned the University . They made their case to the Dean that Vordarian University offered a variety of courses that Vorbarr Sultana did not in regards to some District politics, as well as an Escobaran enclave, and the traditional allegiance of the nomadic tribes. Given that the majority of the students involved were upper years and graduate students, the Dean at VSU spoke to the Dean at Vordarian University, who was deeply enthusiastic about the whole situation.”

  
Illyan watched his Count and Emperor for a moment. “The Betan exchange students heard about it at some point and contacted their own Dean—about ten are following the group out to Vordarian District.”

  
At this point, the Count Vorbarra sat up straight, following a projection of events.

  
“The cadets that were going to audit her classes—did they—”

  
“The Commandant of the Academy as well as the Commander of ImpSec’s training course were both approached.”

  
Illyan paused, petitioned Count Vordarian, who I then learned has my personal code or figured out how to get it, and then proceeded to ask me point-blank if I was aware.”

  
Staring at Sofia Vordarian, dressed in what he had learned was her preferred high-necked tunic in her house colors, had brought back memories of his own childhood teacher, a woman who had possessed a terrifying glare when it suited her.

  
He had not known. He had even understood why. Forgiveness versus permission. It would have been hard to get them back once they had gone, including the instructors.

  
“I am not sure how to feel about it—they took initiative. On the other hand—”

  
“They did not ask.” The Emperor looked amused. “You did approve.”

  
“On the condition that they, my ImpSec trainees, be available to the detail as support as needed.” Illyan winced. “It’s the command of one of my more promising agents. His first—he hasn’t quite sussed out why it’s so important.”

  
“Third to the campstool.” His emperor stated it. Baldly. “Or first.”

  
The Impsec man, the Vorbarra armsman making it two, turned to look at his Emperor.

  
“Illyan, I am considering releasing a formal line of inheritance.”

  
A pause, again, and Illyan looked around the richly appointed room. The Emperor’s personal preferences shone through with a strong tendency towards pieces that encouraged a strong, organized work ethic. He had once heard that his Emperor had wished his reign to be immemorable, a footnote of ‘Gregor of Vorbarra, Emperor of Barrayar and Komarr, his reign was peaceful.’ So far, they had worked well to achieve that for the majority of their citizens. This…could stabilize that or push the balance off course.

  
“House Vorbarra has two extant lines through salic descent. Houses Vorkosigan and Vordarian come into play there. If I die without an Heir, civil war. Possibly even if I die with an Heir, of my body or choice.” His ascent to the throne had come through the Pretendership, it could be expected any way. “Ideally, I would merge one of the extant lines with my own.” His Emperor heaved a sigh. “I will, however, re-release the official family trees.”

  
Illyan blanched. He was missing something, and happily so, about what else that was political that was in play. His Emperor certainly wasn’t sharing what, and this meeting had taken place without Count Vorkosigan, which could be a sign of an even deeper game.

 

 


	8. the day that followed

“My lady,” sometimes her loves enjoyed using words to tease her. “The Dean from Beta Colony is on the line.” An intergalactic call was hard to schedule and even to afford. Before, as a University Professor, they had only rarely (if that) used them. In specific, in a set of very terse, very expensive conversations.

  
“I see.” Sofia smoothed the bodice of her sweater, a change from her preferred tunic due to the cold of the air and her personal need for warmth, softness, and comfort when dealing with some of her contemporaries’ correspondence. For example, she had the desire to chuck a candle or something larger at the head of the young idiot that had written this particular missive that she was shoving aside, clearing her desk for the upcoming conversation. “Could you arrange for tea?” She had actually started working with the head of the kitchens to make the creation of things like trays to be far more streamlined; easier to work with and control financially as well as to discourage food waste. Already she had learned that food shortages occurred within the district in the winter, and that they could be crippling to the economy and her people. Her uncle had presided, badly, over two so far.

Sofia vaguely recalled shortages as a child in-District, and her father tightening the budget when they were in Vorbarr Sultana. Probably, thinking about it, because of issues within the District. He had made a point of discussing his views on foodstuffs with her, and as an adult she had strained to recall the conversations before Boris and Andrei had provided logs that her Father-the-Count had made for his-daughter-the-Count, to guide her if he had not survived to guide and support her himself. _As a District, we strive to become self-sufficient. Burya has always struggled to feed it’s population, even when we are considered to be booming . The trouble is the amount, or rather, the lack of arable land for farming. The Tribes are nomadic, moving their herds to better grazing pastures, and our villages and towns manage to survive, subsist. It’s the cities that we have trouble supporting, as the farmland was subsumed by a need for a place to build housing. The cities try and succeed many years with importing food within Burya, but some years have to supply from outside the District, which has led to food riots in recent years. Her recent study of history since then had shown that it had followed through her Uncle’s reign. I try to source all food for the Stronghold and our home in Vorbarr Sultana from the District. This means that the Home Farms supply both, as well as surrounding villages. Ideally, we store a third of our food production in the Stronghold in case we need it in the case of a shortage, or to support those in need of food within our District. Her Uncle had made some decisions that she could not quite parse in regards to the food situation for the Stronghold, and a trip to the Home Farms was actually on the week’s agenda. I would like to add additional funding to our agricultural schools to be able to build a stronger agricultural economy and develop more local experts within our District._ Her father’s words rang through her head as she took a sip of her cooled tea before keying in the code for her communications console. It faced her so that she was framed in the background by the Seat of Burya, even as she leaned into her hoverchair.

  
“Is it more appropriate to offer my condolences on the impending death of your Uncle or my congratulations on your ascension?” The Dean smiled at her, and Sofia softened, let her face and eyes smile back. For all they were technically employer and employee, long familiarity as teacher and student, then colleagues, before the Dean had taken the chair as the head of their department, then the Deanship had bred congeniality, mutual respect, and a genuine fondness. “You look exhausted, Sofia.”

  
“I am exhausted.” She admitted it readily to her old friend. “I am starting classes via conference call, essentially, as well as trying to run a District my Uncle did his genuine best to run into the ground.” She heaved a sigh, smiled at Orel as he deposited a cup of tea next to her before sitting in the empty chair and joining in next to her. “It is more appropriate to offer congratulations. My Uncle-who-was-once-recognized-as-the-Count will be unlamented by his kin or his people. Some, based on the damage that he did to a finally stabilizing economy, may even be happy at his impending death.”

  
“Orel, you look well.” He had also studied under the Dean, when they had taught more classes than the occasional seminar. “How does it feel to be home?”

  
“Different.” He smiled. “I was a child when I left, and I find that what I knew as a child is not what I see or enjoy as an adult. Things that I disliked as a child are things that I can appreciate as an adult.” Her love had a twinkle in his eye that she had enjoyed as he had dragged her through various parts of the Stronghold. “Things that I and Lev are enjoying re-introducing Sofia to.”

  
“How is Lev?” Their third was running down leads and trying to set up a secure and respectful way of speaking and containing with the armsmen that her uncle had kept. Somewhere in the city that abutted the Stronghold, Lev was working with the local guards to try and ascertain the appropriate procedures, the guards’ prior knowledge, and any information that was available about the situation.

  
He was also trying to locate more information on his own family. They had moved since their last letters, and had not left a forwarding address. The night before had involved many snuggles and calming words.

  
“It’s good to be home, but some things have changed. That can be troubling.” Orel admitted to their old friend. “You did not call just to catch up, though.”

  
“No.” The Dean eased back into their more formal demeanor. “I am getting pressure from the government to cancel your contract, sending a replacement for your position.”

  
“The reason?”

  
“Employing a foreign national, one who is technically a government official.” Sofia scoffed. “Unofficially, because of the disdain that the Betan Government has for Barrayar. They knew damn well that you were in the line of succession for a minor position when you moved to Beta.”

  
Sofia blinked. Paused. That was…not entirely correct, accurate. Her friend was continuing. “I am holding out. I have told them that due to your long-term residency on Beta Colony, impeccable academic records, positive student feedback, I cannot justify canceling your contract. I wanted to ask, however, what your plans were.”

  
This was the end of a chapter.

  
“I will not be able to renew my contract.” Sofia admitted. “Perhaps—I’m not a minor position, Hana. I am one of the Sixty Counts. Effectively, I hold the executive power for ovrt eight hundred thousand people during my Lord Father-the-Count-Vordarian’s last census, and my only allegiance is to my Emperor. I put my hands between the hands of the Emperor Gregor Vorbarra, Head of the Barrayaran Imperium, Emperor of Komarr, Sergyar, and Barrayar, and I swore by sword, stone, and stalk to support, shelter, and protect my people and my Emperor. I sit on the Council of Counts. I have no heir or extant relatives that I would trust to support my position.” She forced herself to take a seat, let the ergonomic supports of her chair support her body as she calmed and made a statement. “I will finish my contracted year. I may even teach some seminars. However, I have to focus on my people.”

  
“You have to get married.” Her partner said, softly. “Have an heir.”

  
“Will you continue to —” Her friend flicked their eyes to Sofia and Orel, acknowledging something that her comrades at the university had long understood. “Will you marry them both? Choose one, keep the other?”

  
Sofia paused, reaching out to squeeze Orel’s hand. He in turn brought her hand to his lips, pressed a kiss to it and to the promise ring that she wore, matching the tattoos that he and Lev both wore with pride. They had not wanted to endanger her health with the invasion of needles and possibility of infection. “No,” Orel cut in. “It will have to be a political marriage.Something that will support her reign and not detract from it. She cannot disturb the flow of society too much without repercussions for the District.” He smiled. “Triad marriage and polygamous marriages are not recognized on Barrayar yet. Neither are same-sex marriages in the larger legal framework, though some nomadic groups—” he cut himself off, thinking about the Tribes’ view on same-sex marriages, and it’s differentiation from the majority of Barrayar. They had spoken, after all, of the possibilities that their District allowed. Isolation through constant movement changed a society or a group of people. “Lev and I will remain, though.” He let himself think of Osman, who he had brought up to Lev as a possibility already. The man had admitted that he had separated and eventually divorced his wife over their differing views of relationships. The man was bisexual and polygamous, his wife had not been. The trouble there would be if greater society had an issue with him having divorced his wife.  Osman was the child of the Bey of a Tribe, which gave him a strong political stature. It would reinforce ties to the Tribe. It would also solve the possibility of tension if Sofia married a Vor—too much favoring of another District. Too close of a set of genetics as well. “Sofia will invite you to the wedding as well.” It was actually a rare honor for an off-worlder. The Sixty Counts often avoided foreigners, to their detriment. As it was, Sofia wanted to play a delicate game that would involve foreign investment within the District. Off-world. Possibly exporting.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“It’s happened.” He had watched the video of the ceremony on the com console in his tent with a few friends. Osman had waited until his father had called for him to discuss the implications with him. “I had thought—”

  
“That the Lady Yvette might have interfered?” Osman had known of the woman’s existence. They were vaguely related to her, or rather, the tribe that his Father’s other wife had been born to was the tribe that the Lady Yvette’s mother had called home. She had tried, at one point, to make connections within the Tribes. Unfortunately, her methods had caused a great deal of friction within that Tribe, friction that lingered in some relations to this day. 

  
“Did you ever meet her?” His father asked, leaning back in his Seat, every ounce of weight and degree of posture showing his father’s understanding of and ability to manipulate his own position as Bey to best serve as Bey. Inherent dignity and an understanding of his responsibilities, duties, and privileges as such, perhaps. “The Lady Yvette.” His father’s words were meant to clarify, he supposed.

  
“No, I did not.” He blinked, reassessing. “Perhaps in passing? If I met her, it was as fleeting moment, not a formal introduction, Father. In Bulwark.” He named the city that abutted the Stronghold. At some point it had had a different name, but it could have been named Dari, like three villages in Burya. It hosted the largest University in the District, as well as the Agricultural School. He had started his university education there before eventually transferring to Vorbarr Sultana. There had been a small group of folks from the Tribes in Bulwark, involved in education, trade, and a few in courtships. He had personally preferred the company of his fellow students as several of that community were or remained as involuntary exiles, and had been quite bitter about Tribes’ life. The opposite problem had also sprung up, those who were overly nostalgic about the nomadic lifestyle, focusing on glory and ignoring struggles, waxing poetic about the freedom to travel and move without acknowledging the driving forces behind the constant movement including starving livestock and exhausted tempers, trades partners that barely tolerated them.

  
“She is deranged.” His father said, each word measured. “It did not show easily when I knew her, hidden away in her personality. It peeked at the edges. It showed in her decisions. She seemed rational when you spoke to her personally, but an examination of a conversation was often able to show the opposite.” His father paused. “When you spoke to Orel Ghazi, what did you notice?” His father stopped him with a hand. “Including the time that you both spent privately.” His father acknowledged his awareness that his son had taken the armsman to bed, which would normally have forced a sigh from Osman’s mouth. On this occasion, it did not surprise him. His father would have kept eyes on the man regardless.  
“Well educated, logical, loyal. He is sworn to his Count and his family.” Osman acknowledged it. “He is also waist deep in love.”

   
“With?” He had taken Osman to bed, after all.

  
“He has two.” They were not townspeople, the Tribes acknowledged plural marriage. “His Count, his fellow armsman, I believe.” Osman relayed. “He told me of them through descriptions, not names.”

  
“I do think that you’re right.” His father admitted. “That the man is in love.” Usman Bey would know, after all. For all his mothers could fight, Erka & Aykiz were secure in his father’s love, and their love for each other. It had been a point of contention in his own marriage, that he felt far more attuned to a plural marriage than his wife did. “I also think that there are some political realities that he and his will have to work out.”

  
“Father?”

  
“I know enough of Barrayaran Imperial politics to know that the Count is going to eventually need a husband to have legitimate children. In Burya, they might be accepted, but the other Counts could very well disagree, Osman.”  True, he understood. “The choice of husband for a polyamorous family is going to be fraught with trouble.” His father sat back, watching him, before changing the subject. “How goes the planning of an infrastructure for a transportable hydro power generator go?”  
“It certainly needs a shorter name, Father.” He accepted the switch. “I thought you might bring that up. It’s going okay. The issues that I am finding is in making the output even, a lightweight packing set, and….” He admitted. “We will also be working to train a group of youths that can maintain and fix, possibly even fabricate new pieces if need be, for the generator.” Osman had thought on it, and that had seemed like the best course. “I know that it lowers our cash flow by making the other Tribes not dependent on us for labor and mechanical aid, however, I thought that it  would be better to…”

  
“Ensure that if you die, our Tribes do not do so as well?” His father was smiling. “I agree. Part of the point of the infrastructure initiatives are to increase our independence while allowing all of our Tribes access to technology without restricting our way of life.”

  
There had been a few groups that had tried to settle with their sheep and had ended up having to pack up soon after when they rediscovered that there had been a historical reason for them to continue to live as nomads. Constantly changing pastures was actually a good thing. Other things, like education and health care access were also invaluable. Osman’s communications console set up in his father’s Tent was used at least monthly for their healer to consult with other healers or even some doctors to better support a patient or patients. Better access could mean a lower toll on their teacher, whose class sizes fluctuated each year, and could be a source of frustration. “I believe that we could also approach the Count about restructuring the educational system within Burya.” Osman had thought on it.

  
“I do as well.” Usman remembered the days of their Count’s father. The expansion to infrastructure and social systems had actually brought the predecessor of their current teacher to the Tribe. “I have heard that the local,” the Tribes used that word rather than the more rude ‘bumpkin’ “towns and villages have also struggled with the social systems and infrastructure of a society since the death of the Count Vidal Vordarian.”

 

 

 

 

“You jest.” Yvette sank into her chair, forcing her voice to stay quiet. No need to terrify the boy.  
“The ceremony in the Stronghold went through without a hitch.” The speaker on the other end of the comm console spoke. His voice was somewhat calm, though not wholly so. 

 

 

 

 

 

He had kept a small reader for himself, trying to make sure that he could access news, knowledge, and communications on his own. His trust had once been solid in those that called himself his family, but that, that had been a long time ago in his youth, before desperation, curiosity, and being in the right place at the right time had fractured it as if with an ice pick. Or sledge hammer. All of those descriptions had felt accurate when he had decided to go exploring away from his governess and had hidden in a closet in the man that he had thought was his uncle’s armoire, within his study, inadvertently eavesdropping upon the conversation that had changed his life.

  
“ _Vincent Vordarian sentenced to death for treason,”_ had read the headline when he had felt comfortable checking them in privacy. The divorcee Vordarian had hovered in the beginning since was told that he would be moving in with her to experience other aspects of Barrayaran society. She had since moved from there to overbearing, almost stifling, and he had been happy to have hidden the reader. _“Daughter of the Usurper Swears as Count to the Emperor.”_ The headline had finished. The version that the divorcee Vordarian had offered had focused on more sensational, less integrity based journalism, including barely accusing or perhaps more implying that the Emperor was soft, a neo-liberal boiled through without common sense. 

  
His education had pointed out that while it was not still illegal to quote or have a differing opinion in print than that of the Emperor, the _lese-majeste_ laws enacted during The Emperor Yuir’s reign still had influence over the press even as they had been slowly and meticulously lifted during the reign of the Emperor Gregor. His ‘Uncle,’ during his tutoring sessions, had touted that exact control of the press as a sign of a strong Empire and the Empire’s executive, The Emperor as progenitor of Peace and War, Overlord of Divisions, Bringer of Laws. Of course, that man was also his half brother, something that his ‘Uncle,’ had specifically avoided speaking about.

  
He needed to make time to leave the house and head to a more public area, perhaps a pub or tea house to read the news and find out more from available information and the the gossip of the town. While the divorcee Vordarian, properly the Lady Yvette, stayed away from the local town’s folk, he had managed to make her accept his own wishes for going to the grocery, the book shop, and the clothier on his own. She traveled to purchase her clothes in Vorbarr Sultana, something that he thought she also meshed with her personal pleasure and probable plottery. She had a way to travel on her personal journey before she would manage being stealthy, at least to him.

  
Leaning back against the guest room pillow, he read through the article.

  
_In a surprise session of the Court of Counts, Vincent Vordarian was brought up on Imperial charges of treason, focusing on financial misdeeds and circumventing his brother, the Usurper, Count VIdal Vordarian’s legally registered will and his Imperially recognized Heir. In an open court, his niece was in the audience chamber as his charges were made and the sentencing handed down. In a show of the executive power, the case was brought swiftly through and a vote was forced without the accused allowed to speak in open court. Hearkening back to Emperor Ezar’s reign, the proof of misdeed was found in ImpSec recordings, and as action is the legal stamp of misdeed, not motive, the vote of guilty and then the  sentence to death by exposure was a swift surprise to many._

  
_His niece has resumed her rightful position as Count Vordarian, as indicated in her father’s will and the recognition by Emperor Ezar confirming that Count’s Choice over-writes any male-preferenced inheritance. To remind readers, Count’s Choice is the mechanism by which a Count legally chooses their heir in front of a witness or witnesses. In current practice, a Count’s Choice is validated by the Counts as a group, though historically both the recognition with a witness not oath sworn to the Count or the recognition with the witness of the Emperor were legally  binding. The Count Vidal Vordarian used the latter, the recognition of the Emperor Ezar sealing the wish._

  
_The Count Sofia Vordarian is the first female Count in recent history, though during the conflicts that the leadership of Emperor Dorca the Just finally squelched, several of the petty kingdoms that became our current district have records of female leadership. Count Vordarian lived on Beta Colony after the civil war instigated by her father’s actions was put down by forces loyal to House Vorkosigan and the Imperial House Vorbarra. There she received multiple Masteries, studying politics and history. While she may not have spent all of her formative years on planet, the Count’s education makes her one of the highest-educated Counts on Barrayar. She still maintains a professorship on Beta Colony, currently seconded to the Vorbarr Sultana University._

  
_The other point of interest; this ruling enforced that Count’s Choice and the witnessing of that choice is a legally valid line of ascension to the position of Count, as well as that the Emperor will continue to enforce his Grandfather’s policies. As a conservative decision, this strengthens the rights of the Districts and their leadership to have a say in how they are ruled, as well as enforcing the power of the Emperor. Progressives are hailing the ascension of a female count as a sign of growth that will show the greater galaxy that Barrayar is not a place that enslaves it’s women. It has been put forward by the Women’s League that “They look forward to the work that Count Vordarian will do in showing the inheritance rights of women, as well as empowering women within our legal system here on Barrayar.”_

  
_Either way, an Imperial Audit is continuing into the Count Vincent Vordarian’s finances to see where missing monies went._

  
He let himself scan the rest of the article, noting on the bottom that video of the trial and the oath of the new Count Vordarian were available for viewing through official channels as well as through one of the main vid-news. It would be something to watch when he was out of the house.

  
His ‘Uncle’ would not appreciate this. Whatever game the man was playing, he knew that the Vordarian ties were important, and possibly even pushing money into their planning. A lack of appreciation would be the beginning, and from his education with his Uncle’s son, theoretically his cousin,  an Imperial Auditor looking into the finances of a traitor would also be examining other aspects of the man’s life, including possible ties to other families. The man could even be looking for a conspiracy. Whether or not he found one could be interesting.

  
Technically, he currently lived in Vordarian District, in one of the border towns, now that he had been ordered to spend time with the woman that his ‘Uncle,’ had implied was his aunt. He doubted it, based on his own observations and experiences, but the argument had not been worth the commentary. 

  
“Your education needs the experience and guidance that the Lady Yvette’s knowledge and personal ties can provide.” His Uncle-the-Count had said, and he had listened. But what was the point of this education? He lived tucked away, taught by tutors alongside his Cousin-the-Heir, and unable to attend the Academy as he had first wished, or the University in Vorbarr Sultana as he had first endeavored to do. If his Cousin was the heir, why was his political education even more intense than his Cousin’s?


End file.
